"Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind." - Rudyard Kipling
"If"
IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
Analysis: In this poem, Kipling is talking about what it takes to be a man. Throughout his lifetime, Kipling, who was born in British India, traveled throughout the world. His journeys included trips to Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, and The United States. He had many major achievements, including participating in the Boer war in South Africa, and starting several newspapers, along with his bestselling poetry and novels. The things he experienced in these travels have clearly influenced his writing and opinions. Kipling appears to have high standards for what a man should be. This advice is similar to that that a man gives his son.
"Mother o' mine" If I were hanged on the highest hill, Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
I know whose love would follow me still, Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
If I were drowned in the deepest sea, Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
I know whose tears would come down to me, Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole, Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
Analysis:
In this poem, Kipling was writing about his mother, or a similar mother figure. He had strong views as to how a mother should care for her young. He says that a mother should always love a son, even if he was killed, drowned, or "damned". Kipling's own mother had a great influence on his life, she was his primary caregiver, and he once said that he felt a greater attachment to his mother than anyone else. He believed a mother should be there for her son, no matter what.
"The Conundrums of the Workshops" When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art ?"
Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew -
The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;
And he left his lore to the use of his sons -- and that was a glorious gain
When the Devil chuckled "Is it Art ?" in the ear of the branded Cain.
They fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked and they fought in the West,
Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest -
Had rest till that dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,
And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but is it Art ?"
They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,
Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art ?"
The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung,
While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.
The tale is as old as the Eden Tree - and new as the new-cut tooth -
For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;
And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,
The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art ?"
We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,
We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yelk of an addled egg,
We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart;
But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever, but is it Art ?"
When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Club-room's green and gold,
The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould -
They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start,
For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art ?"
Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow,
And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,
And if we could come when the sentry slept and softly scurry through,
By the favour of God we might know as much - as our father Adam knew!
Analysis:
In the poem "The Conundrums of the Workshops", Kipling uses various aspects of the bible as an analogy. In the bible, a higher power supposedly created man, and gave him free will. Man became selfish, fell to temptation, and was subsequently banished from paradise. In exile, man split the lands, and conquered its resources, claiming them for himself. At the end of every paragraph, something is created and criticized by "the Devil". That something is then improved upon in the following paragraph. Man always tried to one-up previous accomplishments.
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Barry McGrorty
"Trust"
Trust is something that
Must be learned
Not through deceit or lies,
But through confidence and ties
I don't trust many
Not even a few
Nobody, not any
Not even you
I trusted her before
She wouldn't betray me
She swore
She lied, she told, and then walked away
The pain I felt
Like a leather belt
Struck across my back
Now she's gone, and not coming back
"The Sea"
The great blue mass
Moving so lifelike
The salt air tingles the nose
The crash of the waves
She soothes your skin
The gritty taste
The wind in your hair
Freedom at last
"Bicycle"
Oh my bicycle.
My bike.
Made of carbon fiber, rubber, steel and love.
You get me where I need to go.
You're good for me.
I love riding you to school.
Or home.
Or through the park.
Or anywhere.
Oh my bicycle.
Analysis:
My writing draws almost entirely from personal experience. My style is free-form. It has no consistency, patterns, rhyme, or rhythm. It is deep. How I feel, and the events from day to day hold much sway on how my writing turns out. My poetry is volatile. My poetry is sporadic. My poetry is a reflection of my inner thoughts, especially those that seldom reach the surface.
"If"
IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
Analysis:
In this poem, Kipling is talking about what it takes to be a man. Throughout his lifetime, Kipling, who was born in British India, traveled throughout the world. His journeys included trips to Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, and The United States. He had many major achievements, including participating in the Boer war in South Africa, and starting several newspapers, along with his bestselling poetry and novels. The things he experienced in these travels have clearly influenced his writing and opinions. Kipling appears to have high standards for what a man should be. This advice is similar to that that a man gives his son.
"Mother o' mine"
If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
I know whose tears would come down to me,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
Analysis:
In this poem, Kipling was writing about his mother, or a similar mother figure. He had strong views as to how a mother should care for her young. He says that a mother should always love a son, even if he was killed, drowned, or "damned". Kipling's own mother had a great influence on his life, she was his primary caregiver, and he once said that he felt a greater attachment to his mother than anyone else. He believed a mother should be there for her son, no matter what.
"The Conundrums of the Workshops"
When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art ?"
Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew -
The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;
And he left his lore to the use of his sons -- and that was a glorious gain
When the Devil chuckled "Is it Art ?" in the ear of the branded Cain.
They fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked and they fought in the West,
Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest -
Had rest till that dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,
And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but is it Art ?"
They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,
Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art ?"
The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung,
While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.
The tale is as old as the Eden Tree - and new as the new-cut tooth -
For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;
And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,
The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art ?"
We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,
We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yelk of an addled egg,
We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart;
But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever, but is it Art ?"
When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Club-room's green and gold,
The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould -
They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start,
For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art ?"
Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow,
And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,
And if we could come when the sentry slept and softly scurry through,
By the favour of God we might know as much - as our father Adam knew!
Analysis:
In the poem "The Conundrums of the Workshops", Kipling uses various aspects of the bible as an analogy. In the bible, a higher power supposedly created man, and gave him free will. Man became selfish, fell to temptation, and was subsequently banished from paradise. In exile, man split the lands, and conquered its resources, claiming them for himself. At the end of every paragraph, something is created and criticized by "the Devil". That something is then improved upon in the following paragraph. Man always tried to one-up previous accomplishments.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Barry McGrorty
"Trust"
Trust is something that
Must be learned
Not through deceit or lies,
But through confidence and ties
I don't trust many
Not even a few
Nobody, not any
Not even you
I trusted her before
She wouldn't betray me
She swore
She lied, she told, and then walked away
The pain I felt
Like a leather belt
Struck across my back
Now she's gone, and not coming back
"The Sea"
The great blue mass
Moving so lifelike
The salt air tingles the nose
The crash of the waves
She soothes your skin
The gritty taste
The wind in your hair
Freedom at last
"Bicycle"
Oh my bicycle.
My bike.
Made of carbon fiber, rubber, steel and love.
You get me where I need to go.
You're good for me.
I love riding you to school.
Or home.
Or through the park.
Or anywhere.
Oh my bicycle.
Analysis:
My writing draws almost entirely from personal experience. My style is free-form. It has no consistency, patterns, rhyme, or rhythm. It is deep. How I feel, and the events from day to day hold much sway on how my writing turns out. My poetry is volatile. My poetry is sporadic. My poetry is a reflection of my inner thoughts, especially those that seldom reach the surface.